"I was satisfied
with haiku until I met you, but now I want a Russian novel,a 50-page description of you sleeping,
another 75 of what you think staring out a window." Dean Young, excerpt
from “Changing Genres”

I was flattered and saddened together. Does that
happen? How does the mind have collusion to such opposites?

I don’t realize I have been a spinning top until I
play with him, giving him a time out, screaming and then squealing. Until I
open the door cautiously to see him sleep, with folded hands below his chin,
long lashes fanning the cheeks with their shadow. Until, I slide in next to him
and he instinctively turns towards me, snuggling up like a reminder of his one
year old self. Until I see the shining dampness on his temples and hair.

Like the way he lazily wakes up and hugs me tight with
that melting gold smile of his, the way my body envelopes his softness and the
way he traces my jaw, my clavicles, playing with my hair.

Is it possible to be great, to fill in passion in the
momentary and finally create a grave full of passion?

Is it possible to live
deeply into the world, and still create the orchestra of warm home, the rhythm
of domesticity, the moments of beautiful blandness?

Some days am full and think yes! Others not so much! The consistency of the inconsistent heart!

Zelda
Fitzgerald says: “Yours is a story taking place behind the scenes, and I only
hope that you will not forget that most of the audience has never been there”

The way crickets chirp and birds sound, you can
hear the summer coming to close. The way grass turns and flower behaves, you
can smell the summer end.

Conflicted
colors of life, smudged with peach, the yellows and the pastels of:

the way Nirvaan trips over and goes “mumma mumma”
hand held out for me, he quiets down as i hold him … other times he climbs atop
me… lilts ‘lurvvve you’ while pressing his cheeks to mine or planting a big
slobbery one on the mouth,

painted
with pink and red of:

long talking hours when the time does it’s clichéd
flying, the interweaving of love and lust, desire and despair, making a
tapestry over my newest quilt for the everyday

Christina talks about Animal Totems and I think I have
two right now the deer and sparrow.

He says I sound irritated. I stop. Am I? Irritated? With what?A presence or an absence?

I don’t really know or perhaps maybe I do. Everything is a compass. The heart always
knows best. The ever present friend and guide!

What is it like to finally decide to:

1.Give up a friend and remember his
birthday?

2.Give up on another one and remember
her idiosyncrasies?

3.Not let the muck in a garb of pleas,
touch you?

4.Not let the fatigue and dark clouds
envelope, interfere with the everyday?

5.Let your son kiss you silly and mess
with you, when all you really want is to be left alone?

6.Not get disconnected completely, when
you are really craving that shell?

7.Not let
lead-in-the-stomach-premonitions paralyze you?

8.Taking a chance on a new friendship
when you would rather shut out?

9.Saying yes to self and someone, but
more to self? That huge leap of faith?

It’s vertiginous. It’s
terrifying.

An unexpected rain
shower of everything to make new memories takes over. A slow realization it’s
good to be cautious but it’s greater perhaps to be true to self. The simply
wild self! There is grace in nature.

To learn
to know how it feels to be stranded in the middle of an ocean and have the
skies open up and know things will never be the same again. And, your heart
just got a bit more scraped and bit more resilient.